i like to tell stories

She walked up to edge of the platform and peered down the tunnel. There was no train. She paced back and forth in front of me all the while her shoes making that sound only shoes like these could. Three trains went by, they were not ours. We both boarded the next one, as that is just what you do in moments like these. I stepped into the train, waited for the doors to close and leaned back on them, just like you’re not suppose to. So did she. The train jerked and the doors opened again almost dumping us both back out onto the platform. We looked at one anther and shook our heads in disappointment with our ride.

An older then me gentlemanly man started talking with her, I think she struck it up actually, points to the New Yorker he was reading. Who says magazines are dead? He departed a few stops later and she pulled out a book, I kept fidgeting with my camera. The train stopped short and fast at the next station bumping us into each other and again we exchanged our quiet disappointment.

As she went back to reading, before I consciously even knew it was aloud, I said, “Who made those shoes?” We chatted and I asked her if I could take a photograph of one of them, she smiled, was agreeable and stuck her foot out. So I did, I took a photograph. I also told her I wanted to take one on the platform while they were on that great yellow stripe, but that I was too shy to ask.

(I lied, well, sort of).